


Kingdom Come

by fatiguedfern



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Asphyxiation, Codependency, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 11:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatiguedfern/pseuds/fatiguedfern
Summary: And in time, the sun rises, and Saihara learns to stand once more.





	Kingdom Come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grayimperia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayimperia/gifts).
  * Inspired by [My Empire of Dirt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11068200) by [grayimperia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayimperia/pseuds/grayimperia). 



Saihara glances heavenwards, peering through lingering clouds of ash and smoke at the widespread cerulean above. The sun, untarnished by barred metal walls, glares in turn.

Though stale with dust and death, the air sifts freely through the uncaged space. As a dog chained to a pole for so long that now, when his ties are cut and the noose slipped over his neck is unknotted, Saihara’s uncertain of where to go and unsure of what to do other than wander aimlessly through the sunken set.  
But the sun remains shining surely and his ribcage still heaves while his undeserving lungs fill with inhaled breath. 

To his side, Yumeno rubs at her eyes. Saihara wonders if when the crusts of ringed sleep entirely peel away from her eyes, she’d see the world as is - without flickering traces of otherworldly powers. 

Harukawa grinds rubble into dust with the heel of her boot, and from how closely she’s positioned to his other side, he can hear the grating enamel as her teeth grit. The fleeting thought that Harukawa might be grinding away at her doubts of a new world comes and flits away.

They’re alive. Saihara isn’t entirely sure if it’s something to rejoice over.

But the sun still shines a persistent, smoke-ridden light, and reluctantly taken oxygen still fuels his mind. And then Harukawa smiles. It’s a small, strained thing that frays at the edges, but it’s a smile all the same, and Saihara feels obligated to follow suit. 

His lips crack as he makes a conscious effort to stretch them upwards. He casts a glance in Yumeno’s direction, a tired smile born of gloom plastering itself to her own face. 

Saihara creakily cranes his neck back into the polluted warmth shed from the ever-spanning horizon. He swallows down another shaky puff of breath. 

In theory, he supposes that this isn’t the first step he’d taken since the sky had fallen, the scuff marks scraped in dull grey lines into the once polished leather of his shoes from his stumbled re-emergence from their temporary rubble-strewn grave. The remembrance of his floundering steps does nothing to lighten his leaden toes as he keeps his eyes set on the horizon laid out ahead of him. 

His toes wriggle and writhe beneath the dust-dulled leather. He tries for a arching movement of his leg. The twined flesh and sinew remains limp. Saihara keeps his eyes fixated on the path ahead, beaming sunlight shining it’s blessings onto the course earth and the light searing at his dilated vision

His foot dangles in the air for a second that seems to stretch and contort into something more. Saihara’s shoe squeaks as it skids to halt beneath rattling coatings of rubble. 

He keeps his eyes locked onto the sliver of faded, sun-dyed blue just below the sun itself. Saihara chokes down another gulp of air. He moves forward, his fellow survivors sudden absence going unnoticed. He takes another step.

And then another, and another, and another. And again, and again, and again. 

He trudges through rubble and dust until his shoes’ soles wear and his heels blister. Until the sun looms above him.

And then the world itself is dissolving beneath his feet. 

And the sky peels away until all that’s left is an all-consuming light.

.

Fields of sterile white bleed into a flashing crimson as Saihara views his surroundings through the lense of a translucent screen coloured red by the glare of a warning light. 

Through the ringing and pounding clattering in his ears he can make out a dulled siren. The wail is distant, likely muffled and carried away a further phantom distance by the low buzz echoing through his mind. 

He tastes corroded blood, matting between the cracks of his teeth. Strange, he doesn’t remember biting his tongue. The blood tastes stale. Old enough to have curdled for weeks. 

He attempts to curl his unclad toes. They remain unresponsive and pressed close to the padded foam he’s strapped to.

A tangle of webbed wires knots around the thick strips of heavy, synthetic material holding him in place. It’s unnecessary, really, he thinks as he vainly attempts to stir his body into some sort movement, even the slightest of twitches lost to his unresponsive nerves.

The curved glass screen peels open with grinding that rumbles loud enough for him to catch the jerky sound. The vent feeding canistered oxygen into the pod shuts, and he’s left to inhale the newly leaked air from beyond. Air seeps into the unlidded space, just as processed and artificial.

Well-practiced hands unbuckle the straps, untangling the mess of wires in the process. Rubber-wrapped fingers pluck through the space just above his temples. A handful of red and black strings are loosened and he’s propped up against the momentary coffin walls.

He’s pulled into a seat below. He can hear himself murmuring a question he can’t fully understand, sound and words lost to his own ears. A low baritone hums out what he assumes to be an answer. 

They rattle through bleached halls, wheels clacking. Saihara picks up on fragmented pieces of speech on the way. 

Straining his neck, he glances at slitted doorways dotting the walls as he’s pushed to an unknown destination, catching glimpses of familiar features in passing.

.

Steam clogs the air, forming a layer of perspiration on mirrored glass. Saihara wipes a tentative palm over the slick surface, watching in disdain as his reflection is cleared of the misted layer of distortion. 

He stares into a set of hollowed eyes, chalky black semi-crescents cupping the drooping bulbs. His breath is taken easily enough as he drowns in the watered down smoke, though it still hitches as he’s met with creasing, dead eyes. Scrunching his eyelids shut, he shakily makes his way towards the running shower.

Heavily falling down pour leaks from the ridges of the raised floor. The bathroom mat soaks in rippling spirals of steaming water. Saihara stumbles his way across the waterlogged tiles and fabric.

He hoists himself into the stall, scalding water gushing over and dipping into the hollow of his collarbone. An odd swell of pride blossoms in his chest, flimsy roots twining around his heart and whispering soft, unwanted reassurances. The reassurance is snuffed by coursing guilt.

Soap cakes beneath his nails as he scrubs at his sloping nape. His attention shifts and he turns to scouring the sunken features of his face. His eyes sting, vision blurring with a mixture of soapy foam and liquid he isn’t able to discern between salt-laden tears and the processed water spouting from the standard showerhead. 

His knees buckle. He crawls - stretch by stretch. _Just a little further..._

The door swings open and he’s cradled into the chest of a faceless creature clad in hospital scrubs. 

.

Rubber-tipped steel patters against the floor as he shuffles into the doorway of the cafeteria in time to hear, not laughter, too empty for that, but something akin.  
Saihara searches the room for the source of the sound, eyes passing and lingering on a whispering Harukawa and Yumeno. He wonders, would they flicker and fade once more if he reached out. Saihara inhales deeply. 

His gaze continues to rove, flitting passed ashen-faced classmates until it lands upon a larger group huddled at the central table. 

Amami’s voice booms and whispers and wages war on itself with faltering notes and lengthened pauses. Angie claps her hands together with fingers untouched by God’s and Chabashira smile a dulled smile short of any familiar strength.

Akamatsu sifts through her plate with the occasional glance in Amami’s direction. Saihara grasps harder at the nail-bitten rubber grip of his crutches. Akamatsu continues lazily swirling her spoon across the tray.

The off laughter creaks to a halt. Saihara cranes his neck to pinpoint the sudden lull in noise. 

Momota’s mouth hangs half agape - a reaction too violent for its cause’s reality. Ouma’s mouth pulls taut in a thin-lipped smile. Saihara buries his nails into fraying rubber.

He turns, not straining his neck to look behind him as he flees. He keeps shuffling forward, a heavy clicking echoing as he shifts his weight between crutches.

.

The window framed just above the dust-layered keyboard seems to melt with the rapidly streaking rain. Saihara blows a steady stream of hot air onto the fitted glass. The rippling crystalline surface pales a murky white as it fogs over.

Saihara drags a finger across the thinly lain fog. His face is reflected as sunken as when mirrored before. His finger arches upwards, forming a curved line in the smog. He dots out two eyes and watches as they melt away as the fog clears.

“You’re acting especially distant today, aren’t you? I mean you’re always like this, but today you haven’t even bothered greeting anyone.”

Saihara jolts, turning to face the speaker. “A-akamatsu-san! I- what are you doing here?”

Akamatsu clucks her tongue, stepping closer to him. “Call it an intervention of sorts.” She settles herself onto the stool just set in front of the keyboard, seemingly preparing for a longer stay than wanted by the steely expression plastered to her face.

Saihara scratches at the flushed skin of his nape. “I’m thankful that you took the time to come and speak to me, but I’m not really sure if that’s really necessary…”

Akamatsu pinches the bridge of her nose. “Frankly, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.” 

Saihara stares past her and into the glazed window. Thunder cracks and the glass shakes in its frame. Akamatsu’s voice rumbles.

“...I’m not telling you to let people in or whatever bullshit they expected me to tell you, but it might be a start to not ghost through here and drag everyone’s spirits straight back into the pit we were just seeing the light of. Look, I know that I sound insensitive, but you were stuck in your pod for _mounths_ ,” Akamatsu pauses, frowning up at him. “People grew, people fell, and they dragged themselves up again.”

Her eyes flit back to her lap, fingers knotting and twining. “And some never stood up at all.” Her breath catches and Saihara feels his own stutter. “We lived, or breathed, for six months while you were still strapped into your pod, and throughout it all there was this hope held by a good portion of the rest that you’d wake up and that things would be somewhat better. The last chair in group filled, or something. The hero who ended it all returned.” Akamatsu’s fingers tighten. “And here you are, yet you aren’t even here.”

Saihara’s tongue grates against his teeth as he grasps at an answer. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want from me, Akamatsu-san.”

Akamatsu huffs, gripping the edges of the stool until her knuckles whiten. “What I want? I want you to stop calling me that. I want people to stop assuming anything I say will get through to you. I want people to stop looking at me and seeing the girl who was hung for her own doubts, only for her crimes to be abolished by the slip of a shifting tongue.” She grits her teeth. “I want you to stop looking at me like that.”

Saihara gulps down a trickle of bile, claps of thunder suddenly ringing far louder through his ears. “Like what?”

“As if I’m the same person from the game. As if I’m not the person who signed their name on the same list as yours.”

“O-oh.” Saihara turns his attention back to the glass-fitted pane behind him.

“Sorry,” Akamatsu says, rubbing at her brows. She appears beside him, close enough for her own uneasy breathing to be heard. “That was a lot, hmm.”

“Yeah.”

They spend the remainder of the time left before dinner doodling misshapen figures on the smoky glass, and when time does come, Akamatsu heads to the cafeteria with slow, deliberate steps and a reluctant Saihara in tow. Saihara’s crutches clatter. He keeps on moving forward - stretch by stretch.

.

Saihara scrapes the remnants of his meal into the trashcan at the entrance of the cafeteria. His tray clatters to the countertop as he shucks it to the side. He picks up his crutches from their slumped position against the wall, swinging his body towards the doorway in hopes of making a swift exit. He is a creature of habit after all.

His head collides with sinew laced flesh. A filled tray splatters onto the floor.

“Shit, fuck. Watch where you-”

Saihara casts a tentative glance upwards. Momota peers down at him as if he’d seen a ghost - eyes wide and face pale. Saihara thinks it’s a suiting response.

Stuttering a muttered apology beneath his breath, Saihara moves to exit. There’s a sharp tug at his sleeve and he nearly loses his fickle balance altogether. The same hand that’d thrown his balance clutches at Saihara’s upper arm, hoisting him upright.

Saihara rests his weight back onto his crutches. “Thank you, but I’d better get going now.”

“Wait!” Momota cries, “Uh, we’ve got some catchin’ up to do, yeah? You could come to my room whenever you’re feelin’ up for it… Room 23.”

With that said Momota releases his grip on Saihara’s arm and he clatters away.

.

“You know… you’re the last person I would’ve expected to attempt to reconcile their in-game talent, Akamatsu.”

“Maybe,” she presses out another warbled note, the sound further muffled by the raging storm, “but I’d like to think not everything in the game was worthless. I have memories all these notes and songs my hands don’t remember playing, I might as well form some muscle memory of it.”

Saihara nods. “That makes sense, I guess.”

“And you?” Akamatsu asks as she flips to another sheet of music. “Do you have anything you’d like to retain from your talent?”

“Not really? I mean, I maintain that I didn’t have much talent in the game.”

Akamatsu hums lightly. “Though I’m not really in agreement I can respect that. Your talent hasn’t really seemed to change much, though.”

“Wh-how so?”

“Well, you still have this thing where you’re pretty good at reading situations, but then you read too much into it.” Akamatsu squints at the sheet set in front of her. “You stress yourself out.”

“Oh… I’m surprised that you noticed something like that.” Saihara rubs at his neck.

She restarts the sloppy process of pressing through another elementary song. “Again, you’re reading too far into things. I watched everyone trudge through their miserable killing school lives.”

“R-right,” Saihara says. He pauses before speaking again. “Do you ever think about what it was like in the game? How you interacted with them?”

She sighs. “No. I’ve told you before that that wasn’t me, but,” Akamatsu meets his eyes, “remember what I said about not letting everything from the game be entirely meaningless?” 

Saihara doesn’t respond, choosing to press closer into the dust ridden corner he’d situated himself into and listen carefully to Akamatsu’s messy playing over the roaring rainfall.

.

Saihara’s crutch hangs loosely from his arm as he knocks against the hollowed plywood door. He can hear a light switch flipped and a muttering of curses uttered as heavy footsteps stumble towards the door. There’s a rattling at the keyhole and then the door is scraping open.

Momota answers the door with a groan. His hair lies plastered to his cheeks and his eyes blur and squint with sleep. He runs a hand through the matted clumps of hair, hand coming loose with its skin slicked in grease and sweat. 

“G’mornin’,” Momota says, voice heavy and syllables slurred.

Saihara shifts nervously. “Good morning, Momota-kun.” He glances at the clock mounted on the wall. _00:21am_. Morning after all.

“Wha’ can I help you with?” He rubs at his eyes, irises webbed with crimson.

“I just,” Saihara’s nails bite into rubber, “wanted to take you up on that offer. Sorry, this is probably an inconvenient time… I’ll-I’ll leave now, sorry.”

Momota flops his head to the side, throwing the door open. “Nah, c’mon in.” He beckons Saihara into the room with a sweeping motion.

“Hey, Momota-chan, who was it?” a soft voice rasps from disuse. A silhouette a good deal shorter than himself darts along the shaded borders of the room until a head of purple-tinged midnight bobs a few feet away from Saihara. Ouma cocks his head, wide, curious eyes clear of sleep glinting. “Saihara-chan?”

He fights the urge to take a step backwards as Ouma intently studies him under the guise of childlike curiosity. “H-hey, Ouma-kun.”

“So, what brings you here this late?” Ouma returns to the ruffled bed, perching on the edge. His feet thud lightly against the base as he swings his legs up and down. Branches crack mere metres away beyond thin walls.

Saihara’s tempted to ask him the same before Momota cuts in, “I’m too tired to deal with any deep conversation right now. We can pick this up in the morning. You can stay too if you wanna, Shuuichi.”

His first instinct is to decline, but then he’s struck with the remembrance of patrolling staff. “Uh, if you don’t mind, I could just camp out on the floor?” 

“Nonsense!” Ouma chimes in. “You should sleep on the bed with us.”

Momota grumbles, “While I don’t appreciate Ouma invitin’ people into my bed,” he sends a pointed look in Ouma’s direction, “he’s right. There’s more than enough room.”

As it turns out, there isn’t more than enough room. Momota sprawls across most of the bed, one of his outstretched limbs curling around Saihara’s shoulders. Ouma presses snugly into his side. Saihara almost feels overheated.

Momota’s snores rumble throughout the room. Saihara listens closely to Ouma’s breathing. His inhaling echoes to softly and unevenly for him to fully be asleep.

“Ou-ouma-kun?” Saihara whispers quietly in questioning.

“Mmm, what can I do for you, Saihara-chan?” Sure as the clouds blanketing the sky, Ouma’s voice trills clearly.

“Is this okay? I mean this is the first time we’ve spoken since the game, I feel like I’m intruding on something.”

Ouma snorts uncharacteristically. “I don’t think that’s something you have to worry about. We’re all different here from in the game, but Momota-chan and I seem to still only be able to come to a begrudging understanding through common interest. And one of those interests happened to be both of us being invested in your awakening.”

“O-oh.” 

They’re lulled back into a somewhat steady silence. The mattress shudders with Momota’s snores. The storm rages. He doesn’t question how the sudden heat blooming in his chest doesn’t blister, nor how the others act as if his sudden appearance is anything but natural.

Saihara sleeps peacefully for the first time since his re-awakening. 

.

The corners of his mouth naturally flit upwards as Saihara leans against the wall and watches Momota chase after Ouma. 

Momota screeches a battle cry as Ouma swings around on Saihara’s crutches, effectively evading him again. Saihara feels a rush of air ruffle through his hair as Ouma and Momota race past him. And then, they inevitably skid to a halt and crash into one another. 

And Saihara laughs, or at least the closest thing he can associate with laughter. Saihara’s chest heaves with mirth as he looks back to the heap of tangled limbs before him. Leaning against the wall for support, he shuffles along the platser until he reaches Momota and Ouma.

Keeping a hand firmly planted on the wall, he reaches a hand out to a slumped Ouma and Momota. And as if coming to a momentary truce, the two both latch onto his arm and pull him down into them.

Saihara’s fall is softened by the knotted limbs below him. Saihara laughs until tears - unlike those shed in the solitude of the dark - track down his cheeks. He can almost ignore the purple and blue circling Ouma’s neck and the scabs crusting at Momota’s knuckles.

.

“You’re smiling more. It’s nice.” Akamatsu doesn’t look up from the fingertips she's painting a powdered blue.

“Hmm?” Saihara hums in questioning while flipping to the next page of his leatherbound book.

Akamatsu clicks her tongue against the bridge her mouth as she colours a particularly thinned spot of his forefinger’s nail. “You, Momota and Ouma all seem, not happier exactly, but more content with living.” Saihara squirms as the paintbrush tickles against the flesh of his finger itself. “It’s nice to see.”

“Oh… I think that we’re just getting used to each other,” says Saihara. He studies his free hand, paint still drying on the arcs of his nails. “Anyway, where’d you find this.” He gestures to the little bottle sat on the table.

“Shirogane gave it to me.” Akamatsu doesn’t pause her strokes.

“Oh.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Is there a problem with that?”

“N-no, of course not. It’s just a really nice colour, so I was wondering.”

“It is indeed a nice colour,” a voice cuts in. “Pity you’re messing it up.” Amami slides into a seat beside Akamatsu. “May I?”

She hands him the brush with no hesitance. Amami’s movements are meticulous, and even as his voice cracks and loops and flatlines, Saihara can’t help but admire the steadiness of his hands. 

It isn’t until Amami’s halfway through removing layers of smudged blue that Saihara feels an odd sensation of doubt tug at his mind. He’s sure to glance frequently towards the kitchen, and it isn’t until Momota falls into a seat beside him that the unease knotting in his chest ebbs into a thin clot of uncertainty. 

Ouma slides his tray - piled with food he likely wouldn’t touch - onto the table with a near inaudible clatter. His face wilts a shade paler than usual, and his lips purse tighter. He glances back to Momota, watching as he picks at the raw skin of his knuckles.

Saihara settles his gaze back to his spread fingers. He supposes that it’s one of those days where silence reigns after clattering thunder had lulled into gentle pattering.

And then Momota speaks up, murmuring begrudgingly to Amami. He pauses in his strokes and stuttering tale, nodding agreeably. 

Lunch ends. Ouma and Momota leave with nails coloured the same powder blue as his own. Momota complains and complains, but doesn’t make good on his threats to pick at the glossed coating. Ouma’s cheeks recolour somewhat, and Saihara can’t help but smile despite it all.

.

Saihara lies with his eyes stretched wide and pupils blown. It’s one of those nights, he supposes. The dark had always been a well-suited place to seethe within guilt-laden memories and pre-programmed pasts.

Momota growls in his sleep, the arm wrapped around Saihara tightening. Ouma shifts, his back turning to him. 

He wonders, at times like these when the lights are dimmed until they fade out altogether, what dreams the two bodies encircling him hold and what nightmares they’re truly plagued with. Ouma shivers beside him, tremors shaking into Saihara’s chest. He bundles their strained blanket over Ouma’s side, effectively molding the cloth around his skeletal form. 

Momota’s hand claws into Saihara’s arm. He keeps still. Momota needs the rest, no matter how fitful. Momota grips harder, and Saihara holds his breath locked tight within whitening lips. He would stay still.

The bed creaks as Momota tosses his body to-and-fro, and then Momota’s grasping at him all the harder. Calloused fingers scrape against his skin, tugging, tugging, bruising. 

Saihara keeps still. A hand looms, curving, spasming, closing. 

He keeps still, sputtering and choking, frozen in place. The alarm clock set atop the desk pushed into the furthest corner ticks a soft beat that grows all the more erratic as a coursing gush of blood roars to his ears. 

Fingers of spilt moonlight slip between Momota’s. Ouma presses across the grooves of his knuckles with a strength Saihara wasn’t aware he had.

The hand half cuffed over his neck loosens and flops back onto his shoulder. 

“I-is this normal for him?” Saihara whispers into Ouma’s ear.

Ouma nods lightly, Saihara’s eyes straining to see the movement in the dark. 

“This has happened before? To you?” 

Ouma tilts his head, peering back at him from the other end of their shared pillow. He speaks, speech muffled by the distance. “Yeah, it doesn’t matter much, though. It’s not like it’s the first time. I do kind of wish that it hadn’t started up again, though.” Saihara thinks of guiltless hands crushing at Ouma’s trachea.

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t know. I should’ve known, should’ve thought to talk to Momota-kun more.”

Ouma huffs into the thinly foamed pillow. “Momota-chan doesn’t know that he kicks and screams and reaches out, only for his hand to ball into a fist and strike. I think it’s best if we keep it that way,” a fist of Ouma’s own balls into the sheets, “I don’t mind dying, if anything at this point I would welcome the grim reaper with open arms, press their scythe to my neck and wait,” he hesitates, and Saihara’s almost of his theatrical ingame pauses, “but Momota-chan, frankly, wouldn’t live with himself either. He barely does as is, without the crushing weight of someone’s death, or harm, on his shoulders too.”

“...Of all the people I’ve spoken to regularly Momota-kun is always the most similar to what he was - what they crafted. Why, why is that?” Saihara’s voice croaks with fatigue. 

“We all try and give the best to the people who expect it, Saihara-chan,” says Ouma. 

“I never-”

“And Momota-chan,” Ouma cuts in, to Saihara’s relief, “held onto the hope that someone expected anything from him other than wasting through the halls. And he found that in you, even if you never asked.”

Saihara follows the curve of the arm draped over his own with his gaze, tracing fraying wires of coarse flesh. “I think, that the person who expects the most from Momota-kun, is Momota-kun himself.” 

Ouma whispers in a tune that sings with saccharine appearances,”Well, _duh_. I expected a less obvious conclusion than that from you of all people, Saihara-chan.” 

Saihara hums a tune of dread and helplessness. “I don’t expect you to slip into your pregame self’s mask either, you know?”

The silence stretches into a parasite, growing, writhing and nipping at his certainty.

“Maybe, but sometimes there are things that only a monster can accomplish.”

The silence strains further this time, looping and trailing until the clock ticks to sunrise. Saihara’s eyes remain open, bloodshot and hollow. He wonders if Ouma’s reflect the same.

.

“Could you pass me the foundation please, Ouma-kun?” 

Wordlessly, he passes Saihara the tube of the flesh-coloured paste. _Again?_ the tips of Ouma’s fingers question as they brush against his.

Something had come undone at its finely strung stitches. Momota unravels.

Saihara’s arms are dotted in freshly marked purple and blue. A split crown of violet-budded fingerprints circles his neck. Ouma slips between them some nights, when Saihara’s lulled into a heavy state of unconsciousness by exhaustion alone.

Saihara smears a dollop of foundation across Ouma’s tender shoulder. Papyrus skin shudders beneath his hand. Saihara wonders if the wan skin would flutter out of his reach. A shivering Ouma doesn’t move

It’s a slow, jittery finger that traces the arching circlet of discoloured flesh. Ouma’s shoulder shakes beneath his palm.

The door jolts open.

“Jesus, you’ve been in here forever,” Momota’s voice booms, shattering Ouma’s fickle resolve. He jerks back. Saihara tastes bile.

“H-hey there, Momota-chan,” Ouma says in what Saihara thinks to be an attempt at a sultry tone, posing with a hand splayed onto the mirror. 

It isn’t enough to distract Momota, as he continues. “Look I don’t know what the fuck’s happenin’ here, and I probably don’t wanna, but I need to-” His line of sight focuses on Saihara’s neck. “What- who the fuck did this? I’ll fuckin’ murder them.”

Saihara gulps, looking in Ouma’s direction, whose face had already shifted. “Eh? Does Momota-chan really not know? Can’t recognise your own work?” _A monster, huh._

“What?” Momota turns his full attention back to Saihara. “Shuuichi, what’s he on about?” Saihara hears blood throb in his ears. “Oi, Shuuichi!”

Saihara digs his fingers into his palm, his crutch out of reach. “I’m sorry, it’s just… At night you, you…” 

Momota scratches at his knuckles. His fingertips are dyed in a watered-down red. “Oh.” The scratching grows more frantic. “I really am a shitty person, huh? Sorry, sorry, I’m a fucking idiot. I should’ve just stayed away, yeah? I’m sorry, yeah? I’m sorry. I’ll-I’ll leave now.” 

Saihara feels something slipping. He catches Momota’s bleeding fist within his shaking one. “No, we’re going to work this out. And you-you’re going to start taking whatever’s in that container that’s rotting in the sock drawer. I, we’ll figure this out.”

“I-yeah.” Momota slumps to the floor. “I should leave… I… keep on doing the same shit, over and over. I should just leave.”

“No, you absolute fucking fool,” Saihara steps forward. “Do you really think that we’d cling to you so tightly if we thought you should leave? You’re going to take your meds, and carry on fucking up, and you’re going to _live._ ” Saihara isn’t entirely sure who he’s speaking to anymore.

Momota raises his head. “You’re shouting?”

“I am, yes. Now, get up.” Saihara tugs at his arm, nearly losing his balance in the process. Ouma steadies him.

Ouma says, “Come on. It’s time for bed.”

“Wait. I did that,” he stands, gesturing to Ouma’s shoulder,“right? Lemme just…” 

He fumbles to grab a wet cloth from hung over the basin. He runs the cloth over the crust of foundation. Ouma freezes, face turning to stone. 

Momota scoops out a careful finger of ointment from the small tin he carries in his pocket, smoothing it onto the marred skin. Ouma emits a small “thank you” as Momota wipes his hand on his shirt. 

“Shuuichi, could I…?” Momota asks, still brandishing the tin. 

“Y-yeah, of course.” 

Momota has clumsy fingers, he - not for the first time - notes as he runs the cloth across Saihara’s foundation-coated arms. His fingers are as gentle as they are quick to curl into fists.

He swirls ointment across Saihara’s blemished flesh, cautious as not to press down against bruised skin. Saihara nods thanks, leaving the adjoined bathroom.

They settle into bed, Saihara clinging to Momota all the tighter and Ouma curling into his side.

.

“It’s been raining since you woke up, right?” Akamatsu asks through the filtered tune of a forecaster speaking news of clear skies.

“Yeah,” Saihara says absentmindedly whilst keeping watch over Momota swallowing a cupped palmful of pills around a gulp of orange juice.

“Hey, Saihara-chan, you hear that? We can finally show you around the gardens!” Ouma speaks with an enthusiasm he can’t place between forced and truthful. He hopes for the latter. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just let me finish first,” Momota says around a mouthful of toast.

Ouma flicks the toast out of his hand. “There! All done.” 

Ouma drags them out of the cafeteria by their sleeves. Momota grumbles.  
Saihara staggers uncoordinatedly. “Ah, wait. My crutches are still there.”

Momota slings Saihara’s arm over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” Ouma pouts, taking his free arm and guiding it onto his shoulder. “Oi, I dunno what you’re doin’, Kokichi. You can barely carry yourself as is.” 

Ouma sticks out his tongue and walks faster, causing the other two to pick up their pace. 

Saihara stumbles. Momota and Ouma keep him upright. Oddly enough it almost feels as if they lean as heavily on him as he does them. He supposes that none of them truly wish to live, yet still do so for the others. And as he watches Momota push open the door with a smile, and hears Ouma sneeze into his own sleeve, he can’t really say that he minds all that much.

Dew laces the air, and the sun cracks through the clouds. And Saihara stands, leaning against Ouma and Momota’s shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> this took far longer than it should have, but in my defence it ended up far longer than i thought too


End file.
